Pain and death, quantified
by pattk
Summary: "He didn't exactly save the world, truth be told." Things happen after the events in the Temple in New York. Some people enjoy these things, others don't. Yet another person is simply unsure what the hell they're supposed to mean. - chapter 2 uploaded -
1. Prolog

**This story contains quite a few spoilers, as it begins after the events of Assassin's Creed 3. Do not read if you don't know what happened yet.**

I dedicate this story to my dear friend Trisha. She is the one who came up with the basic plot idea and when she told me a few days after we both finished the game, I had to laugh so hard that it was settled: someone HAD to write it down. The huge problem was that I don't think I could ever write a funny story, so I had to turn it into something dramatic.. oops. But don't we all like some drama? Well, not only did it become a drama, it also became something a lot _bigger_ than we both probably expected it to be.

The second problem was that English isn't my mother tongue. I hope everyone forgives me if I make some stupid language mistakes - sorry. I played the games in English and I just couldn't put German words into the characters' mouths.

Anyways, Trish, this one's for you. Thank you for sharing my enthusiasm and for all the long talks about our dear characters. And thanks for everything else, especially for being the way you are. You're a great, great person. But I think you know that.

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"He didn't exactly _save_ the world, truth be told."

Great.

His head was pounding. Spinning. Thumping.

And someone was obviously mocking him. The sarcasm in the voice of that someone made the man want to jump up despite his throbbing headache and punch the speaker right into his face. Knock out a few teeth if possible. Draw some blood.

"He merely just slowed down its end. We're still in deep, deep trouble. But what am I complaining about, that's completely okay, really. With me at least. Just let _us_ deal with the crazy first-civvie-lady. I'm sure we can do it. It's not like we _need _him, right?"

He paused his ranting for a moment and the man could hear him type something on a keyboard. Then a deep, annoyed sigh. "Well, there is still the possibility that we find a way to get rid of her using, you know, _intelligence _instead of jumping around on tall buildings and stabbing people. If we do, well, I'm pretty sure he wouldn't be much of a help anyways..."

The man opened one eye and immediately regretted it when a flash of pain hit him like a flanged mace right between his eyes. Was that a memory? Did he ever get hit by a huge brute swinging a big-ass weapon?

He decided that this question didn't matter for the moment. It seemed far more important to know who the hell was complaining about how whatever he did wasn't enough to save the world.

Even if those two things might be connected in some way. Maybe the mace-swinging brute was in fact a "crazy first-civvie-lady" - whatever _that_ was supposed to be – who was trying to destroy the world with some evil plot he couldn't deal with because he was wasting his life standing behind a bar mixing Shirley Templars for constantly busy New Yorkers.

_Bad Weather._

Now where did that come from?

"I could still do with a long holiday, really. It is up to our chap here to decide the next steps and he's busy napping while we're devotedly doing our jobs."

"Shaun..", the man managed to grumble beneath his teeth.

"Oh, look, he decided to wake up, great, how about we all go back to work then? It's not like we don't have time for excessive naps, really, we should just make sure that we have about 10 minutes each day to figure out how to save our little lives and – I admit, that's a minor matter, but I still feel obliged to mention it – the _world._"

The man forced himself to open both eyes, ignoring the gnawing pain that started to torture his head again, leaving him slightly nauseated and dizzy. In front of him stood a man with short, brown hair wearing black and gray clothes and dark glasses. He had his hands in his pockets and smiled down at him, a smile that looked far more irritated than amused.

"Good to see you awake for a change."

"I don't remember-", the man started, only to have four-eyes sigh and shake his head.

"Do you remember anything? Do you know who you are?"

He tried to focus. Who was he? _Bad Weather._ _Shirley Templar_. The few scattered memories that remained in his head wouldn't get him very far if he didn't manage to connect them somehow. _Lucy._ The pain stabbed him again, only that this time it was rather somewhere in his chest.

"Father.. father's a Templar..", he mumbled, not sure whether or not this thought had any meaning or if this blob of dizziness and pain he was obviously reduced to even had a father.

"Wrong life", the British man replied. "Let's try again. Who are you?"

Then it dawned on him.

"My name is Desmond Miles. And I am an Assassin", he said, trying to make his voice sound as strong and convincing as possible. For a short moment he had himself believe in this statement. He _was_ Desmond Miles and he definitely_ was_ an Assassin – he surely had plenty of time to figure out what an _Assassin_ was later. For now it seemed like a big step in the right direction to remember his name.

"Wrong", the British man replied again, crushing Desmond's hopes. He must have looked really miserable because Shaun granted him at least a small smile of pity. "Well, it's close, though. If this is what you still believe.. if this is where your memory stops, that's a shame, really, a shame. But it makes sense. There are certain things us human beings just loathe to remember, I guess, and this is surely one of them. Oh, how I hate to be the one to tell you the ugly truth. You're not gonna like it."

He paused and Desmond felt the urge to punch him again as every muscle in his body tensed. He would hate the truth? Fine. He still wanted to know it. Had to know it. He would hate the truth, but he was pretty sure that he hated dramatic pauses in important speeches even more.

Shaun sighed and finally continued talking.

"Your name is Desmond Miles. And you are dead."


	2. Chapter 1

AN:_ This chapter doesn't even deserve to be called "chapter", but well, I want to get the real story started. The next one is going to be long! I hope you like it!_

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Chapter 1

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"Your name is Desmond Miles. And you are dead."

Wait, didn't Shaun just say exactly the same thing about 10 seconds ago? Yes, Desmond didn't expect this truth. He didn't like it either. And Shaun was a cynical person by nature and probably enjoyed being a highly skilled nerd a bit too much, but Desmond didn't remember him being an asshole that found it amusing to tell people who were quite sure to be alive that they are in fact.. well. Dead. Especially not twice.

"Your name is Desmond Miles. And you are dead."

"Oh, come on, Shaun, AGAIN?!", he yelled angrily, but Shaun didn't react. His face was frozen, his lips still forming the word _dead,_ his raised eyebrows causing a few light wrinkles on his forehead. Desmond raised one of his own eyebrows as well as he forced himself into a sitting position and even managed to get up, clumsily, but at least he was standing now – the anger about Shaun's childish behavior had him forget the pain in his body for a short time, but as soon as he had shifted his body weight completely into his legs, the brute was back, hitting Desmond's temple with his mace. Only that this time the mace was covered with nasty little spikes that drilled right into his brain.

"Your name is Desmond Miles. And you are dead", Shaun said once more, but his voice sounded strangely monotonous, like a computer trying to imitate human speech. Even his British accent was entirely gone.

Desmond closed his eyes and gulped, trying not to move the slightest bit until he was almost 80 percent sure that his legs wouldn't just give in again. When his gaze went back to where Shaun was, he still needed all his remaining strength to prevent falling right back on the ground.

"Your name is Desmond Miles. And you are dead", repeated whatever was left of Shaun. His body was dissolving into thin air, his arms and most of his legs already gone. His face looked weird, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he was in intense pain. Desmond tried to make a step towards him. Then one more. The brute was gone. In fact, his body felt lighter than ever and his feet -

What surprised him most was that he wasn't much surprised to see that his feet were gone.

"Your name is Desmond Miles. And you are dead."

Desmond looked up again and the last thing he saw was Shaun nodding at him with a faint smile on his face. A smile that said nothing but _goodbye_.

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When he had his body back, Desmond found himself staring at a vast shelf with countless differently colored bottles on it. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, opened them again – the bottles didn't vanish and no one hit him with any kind of weapon. That was a good sign. Possibly. Maybe it wasn't. He felt too tired to think about the many different ways in which this could also be a bad sign, so he decided not to give it too much thought. It was a good sign for sure.

He took one of the bottles into his hands – probably this one caught his attention because it was bright blue and somehow felt _familiar_. Another good sign. The label on it was white, but only numbers were written on it.

**0110100101101101011100000110 1111011100100111010001100101 01100100.**

What the fuck.

He kept his gaze fixed onto the label, staring at them almost angrily. Whoever wrote these numbers must have had a reason for it. Desmond just didn't get it. How much would he give to have Shaun by his side now. He would surely know what they were supposed to tell him.

Just when he was about to put the bottle back on the shelf, the numbers started changing their forms right in front of his eyes, their edges becoming unclear, the ink wriggling like little larvae on the paper, squirming, becoming bigger, smaller, more, until they were finally spreading over the whole label.

_Bombay Sapphire. Distilled London Dry Gin._

That was something Desmond could work with. In fact, that was something he had been working with for about nine years, after he ran away from... no idea. Still, he felt a sense of pride well up inside of him. He started to remember more and more. Surely he would soon know how the hell he ended up here. Or why Shaun insisted that he was dead. But for now... "Mix it, baby", he mumbled, more to himself than to anyone else and grinned for the first time in what felt like years. Maybe the person who said that being a bartender and mixing cocktails was a complete waste of time was right, but why should he care. He didn't even remember who it was. He only knew that he didn't exactly love his job, but he was good at it and his looks brought him great tips from lonely women who spent their nights in this very bar. At the _Bad Weather_. He turned around on the spot and saw a small sign on the counter in front of him, telling everyone who cared that the daily happy hour started at 8pm, with all cocktails for half of the regular price for exactly one hour. Which was really a good deal. And there they were, the few words that made him smile proudly. _Bad Weather. Brooklyn, New York City_.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: My thanks to everyone who read and especially commented on this! Even though I had a hard time with my rusty Spanish hehe. Thank you!

Anyways, in this chapter - finally at least a bit more of an actual chapter - things are starting to get weird, Desmond is getting a bit sentimental - I'm sorry for that, but honestly, all these horrors he witnessed in other people's lives must've left a big impression on him. Right? No worries though, he'll be back to his cynical self in almost no time.

Desmond will have to go through quite some weird stuff in the following chapters, thanks to my friend Trisha's great imagination. Her plot starts with what's happening at the bar and all the ideas will probably last for many, many pages.. sorry, Desmond, but this most likely is the only way I can get over what happened in the game.

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Chapter 2

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As a bartender, he was supposed to make the drinks his customers ordered, but Desmond was far too excited to wait for the next one to tell him what to mix. His boss wouldn't mind, she never minded him having one or two.. or more drinks himself. He always did a good job, no matter if he was sober or a bit tipsy. After 9 years in New York he had gotten so used to alcohol, a few drinks wouldn't get him wasted anyways. Plus, the more he flirted with the women, the more money they would spend and the longer they would stay, just to hear a few more compliments from his apparently perfectly shaped mouth with the scar that made him look so dangerous. (He never told anyone the truth about his scar, he suddenly thought. What a shame, since now he was unable to remember it himself.)

Desmond took a sip of the drink he just created, winking at a woman in front of him, when some voice caught his attention – he _knew_ this language somehow, but even if his very own existence was at stake, he wouldn't be able to identify it. Not with his head pounding like this again.

_"Come ci si sente se si è la più bella ragazza nella stanza?",_ the voice said to someone, followed by a few seconds of silence and a burst of laughter from a second person._ "__Piú scemoa non potevi nascere__",_ he added to his laughter, getting only a grunt as a reply. Desmond turned to where the voices were coming from – and the sight of the two highly familiar looking men sitting at the right side of the counter made him worry about his mental state of health more than ever. He blinked a few times and shook his head a few times, frantically, hoping to get rid of what _had _to be a hallucination, when one of the hallucinations noticed him and frowned.

This was crazy, Desmond thought and again he felt his muscles tense. He was ready to run as fast as he could, away from these.. these images of long dead people in front of him. He witnessed the death one of them with, well not exactly with his very own eyes, but he still saw him die. In 1476. Which made it even weirder that the dead guy suddenly started talking to him.

_"__Ha dimenticato la mia bevanda?"_

Desmond didn't have the slightest idea what that meant, but it didn't sound nice to his ears. His Italian wasn't really good, he couldn't understand or say more than a bit of _va bene_ and a few insults. Sure, he could've easily cussed at Federico, but how would that help? He didn't know him well, but the other guy – he had some very deep respect for Ezio Auditore da Firenze, who now looked first at his brother and then at Desmond as well. No matter how the two of them came here, to this year, to this bar, chances were that at least one of them was armed to the teeth. And even if he wasn't, he was a weapon himself. Desmond instead – he didn't feel very much like a weapon. Especially not with these goddamn _headaches_.

Another flash. Bright white light everywhere. And numbers. Numbers falling down from the ceiling. Desmond was pretty sure that they were going to crush him if he kept standing on the spot, but he found himself unable to move. Not that he didn't try to, but his legs, arms, not a single part of his body listened to the orders his brain gave them.

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The world imploded for a second – and just as sudden it was back again to its normal state.. or rather the state it was in before the flash, since the two long dead guys were still sitting there, looking at Desmond impatiently.

"I asked if you forgot my drink", Federico repeated, this time in perfect English and Desmond remembered the first few times when he entered the Animus. Annoying little lags in the translation system of this.. thing that made him relive the life of some of his ancestors, for whatever reason. Apparently these lags now followed him into real life – if this _was _the real life – along with these two Italians. Weird, but acceptable. For now. What other choice did he have?

"Sure you ordered it from me?", Desmond asked carefully, trying very hard to keep his cool. Federico raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. "Nah, probably I ordered it from the third guy in this room with a weirdo scar on his lips. Pretty sure I didn't ask my little brother here to mix me something, so, bring me the other one so I can ask him about my drink, will you?"

Desmond was about to reply something when he noticed how the _little brother_ rolled his eyes and then started making faces behind Federico's back, obviously not very impressed by his.. witty reply. Didn't he just think about how much he respected that guy? Wrong. He deeply respected his _older version_. The one sitting here was a 17 year old boy who didn't know much about the world he was actually born into. Sure, he knew about luxury, he knew a lot about women's bodies and he did know quite something about fist-fights and beating people unconscious. He knew how to run and to climb. But he didn't know about hidden blades. He didn't know what an Assassin was. Well. Desmond didn't remember that either, fair enough, but at least he knew he _was_ one.

"Did you just fall asleep with your eyes open?"

Federico's voice jolted him away from his thoughts.

"Ah, um. Sorry", he finally managed to mutter. "I'm just.. having a weird day. What did you order, I'll bring it to you in -" He couldn't help but snort. Making faces was definitely something young Ezio was pretty good at, Desmond had to admit.

The older boy looked at him startled, but turned to his brother when he realized what Desmond was probably laughing about. Ezio's face turned back to normal in no time. Another thing he was good at. Pretending to be innocent. Though anyone who knew him well wouldn't ever think him _innocent – _and Federico surely knew his brother well, as he simply punched his shoulder in an only half angry manner. "When will you finally grow up?", he asked and Desmond's smile disappeared when the memories became even stronger, more vivid. He had lived this boy's life. Experienced himself how Ezio was forced to grow up when he was 17 and witnessed his father and both brothers die, unable to do anything to stop their execution, their murder. That boy, who was now rubbing his shoulder and making another face at his brother, revenged their deaths and took on a long journey that.. was somehow connected to Desmond, even if he was born about 500 years later. Something round and golden, glowing brightly and creepily, something with an inconceivable power, was there as well. Was this what connected the two of them? Was it this _thing_ that made Desmond desperately want to tell Federico to let his little brother stay a kid and enjoy the youth he wasn't granted back in the time he had really lived in? Suddenly Desmond was almost glad that he didn't remember much of his own life anymore – if life had to be so fucked up when you're an Assassin, he was fine not knowing what exactly happened to him. According to the hardly bearable waves of pain that had hit him a few times just today, his life so far hadn't been something you'd tell your grandchildren about. Well, except if you wanted to keep them from sleeping, of course. He definitely had to make sure to have his memory back should he ever have grandchildren who appreciated a good horror-story, because by now, he was pretty sure that there had been quite a few horror scenarios in his life.

"Guys, I'm actually not supposed to give alcoholic drinks to minors" - Federico frowned - "BUT there aren't many people here and you know what? Screw it. I'll just bring you something and you, um, make sure not to pick a fight with anyone, okay?" He wasn't sure if that request would help if someone decided to annoy Ezio (or just appeared to be annoying Ezio in his brother's watchful eyes) and he was even less sure if it was a clever idea to bring them alcohol – they weren't of legal age and his boss surely wouldn't like that too much if she ever found out, but that was the smaller problem – still, he felt the urge to have the boys enjoy the evening as much as possible. There must be a reason why they suddenly showed up in New York, a few hundred years after their deaths, and maybe that reason was very simple: They were supposed to have fun. And as a bartender, Desmond knew how to make people have fun.

When he came back with three strong drinks – he had decided that he could really do with some more alcohol and somehow he wanted to stick with his weird guests for a moment – he wasn't too surprised to find Ezio flirting with a young girl who probably crashed in the bar after a party that was suddenly ended by the police. Was tonight the night where no one cared about checking the customer's IDs?

Desmond let his gaze wander about the place, but luckily his boss was nowhere to be found. Neither was anyone else who seemed to be of higher authority than him. He put two of the three glasses on the counter, two in front of the Auditore boys, took the last one into his own hand – the young girl pouted, but Ezio heroically consorted her in this hard time of no-free-drinks by simply kissing her on the lips – and tried a bit of the Gin Buck he made for himself (for a few seconds he had thought that it would be very ironic and funny if he served them all Shirley Templars, but decided against that in the last moment and poured more ginger ale into the glasses instead of orange juice and sweet, sticky grenadine).

Federico took a sip of his own drink and made an approving gesture. Ezio, who saw this, simply pushed the girl away and tried some himself. The girl obviously didn't really know what to do now, as the three guys drank quietly, so she decided to play with Ezio's long, dark hair for a while. He smirked – even in this century girls would surely fall for him by the dozens, Desmond thought, shaking his head slightly amused.

He used the silence in which they all enjoyed the alcohol to finally have a better look at the boys. The weirdest thing was probably that he felt like it was totally normal having them sit in front of him, despite the fact that even _he_ couldn't ignore how obvious it was that they just _shouldn't_ be here. Even weirder than how even though their clothes – their whole appearance, actually – must have looked so utterly strange to everyone around, no one seemed to care. Just by their clothing you could tell that they were rich, or at least born into a rich family, but _in another fucking century_. And it wasn't Halloween, as far as Desmond knew. Then again, when he let his eyes drift around the room once more, he suddenly noticed with astonishment that not a single one of the customers looked _normal_. Even the girl, who was almost desperately trying to get back Ezio's attention, looked like she just jumped into the _Bad Weather_ right from the 50's. Well, probably she was just going through a phase in which she thought rockabilly was the coolest thing ever – teenagers did that sometimes. But all the other people – holy shit. One woman was wearing a gown any fan of the medieval times would _kill_ for and neither the knee-length breeches nor the powdered, white wig a man next to the door was wearing seemed very appropriate for New York of the 21st century. Desmond quickly fixed his gaze on the glass in his hands. He was surrounded by weirdos.

Maybe Shaun was right after all. Maybe Desmond _was_ dead and got stuck in a place where dead people hung out and it was just an odd coincidence that he ended up in the very bar where he would meet his ancestors. Did people get to chose their afterlife? Was that why the Auditore boys were so young again? Because it was the happiest time of their life, the time they wanted to never change? It _did_ make some sense, at least more than anything else Desmond could think of – for some reason it didn't seem likely to him that he just took some heavy drugs and was having the trip of his life, though he had considered that as an explanation for a moment.

His head started throbbing again and he took it as a sign that he had better stop making up theories. Probably in a few hours, days or weeks someone would ask him how he wanted to spend his time now. He had no idea what to answer if that should happen, but he decided that it wasn't the right time to think about this anyways. He would get back his memory eventually and then he'd chose – maybe he had been so happy back when he was 15 that he wanted to spend eternity this way. Maybe he wasn't. And there was still the possibility that he wasn't really dead. All he knew was that he was far too exhausted to care right now.


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